


Buoys and Ballast

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Christmas Countdown, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 9,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8715739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Bouys and ballast both have their uses. A collection of drabbles revolving around Phrack's developing relationship as a countdown to Christmas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've kind of always wanted to do a fic advent calendar sort of deal, so I am. In theory. With my luck I'll get caught out a few fics short and there will be days where the chapter is simply "And then they should have had sex but they didn't because of the damned writers. Curses!"

Inspector Robinson--Jack. He had told her to call him Jack, and for such a common name it sounded rather delightfully crisp on her tongue--had stayed for two drinks, and was considering a third. Peculiar for a man with a wife at home, but she was enjoying their conversation far too much to worry about a thing like that. There didn’t seem to be any prurient interest on his part, and while she could appreciate the man’s aesthetic benefits she wasn’t particularly inclined to desire him either.

“If you don’t fancy another whiskey, I’m sure Mr. Butler would make tea,” she smiled at him. 

“That might be wise,” he conceded, and Phryne laughed delightedly and turned to call for her new man. He was, rather presciently, already standing at the door with a tray laden with tea things.

“Tilly said you were wonderful, Mr. B, but she failed to mention you were psychic.”

“Not at all, miss,” he said, laying the tray on the side. “Sandwiches?”

Phryne shot a questioning glance to the detective sat across from her, who looked rather hungry and far too polite to say so. 

“Yes, please. Let me guess, Jack… you strike me as a chicken sort of man.”

“I am quite content with whatever is served,” he replied. _Not_ a chicken man, then; she was usually much better at this game.

“I’ll make a selection,” Mr. Butler said, retreating and leaving Phryne and her guest alone once more.

“Very well, Jack,” she said, pouring the tea. “I can see you have questions you are simply dying to ask. Sugar?”

“Just milk, thank you.”

She added the milk and passed the cup and saucer over.

“So what is it? Terribly curious why I’ve moved to Melbourne? Wondering how I struck upon the idea of being a lady detective?”

“No,” he said, tone just dry enough to be amused. “Wondering how often my name will be invoked, and whether the force will pay me overtime for it.”

She laughed brightly.

“You’re not the least bit curious though?” she asked after a moment.

He shrugged and looked her in the eyes; his were a rather stunning shade of blue, and kind. 

“I know why you’ve come back to Melbourne,” he said quietly. 

“You looked into me after the Turkish Bath House,” she realised, suddenly subdued. 

“I did. I didn’t make the connection between Miss Ross and your sister until later, I’m afraid. I’m sorry if I...”

Phryne shrugged in return.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Truth be told, it’s a relief. It is not, as I’m sure you can imagine, considered a topic for polite conversation.”

He gave her a small, lopsided smile that transformed his firm face into one of pleasure.

“I’m not entirely certain I even remember how to have a polite conversation, talking to criminals and Collins all day.”

Again the lack of consideration for the wife he clearly had. A strained relationship then, unable to bear whatever weight Jack Robinson carried on his shoulders.

“Well, that will never do,” Phryne said. “You ought to stop by for a nightcap more often.”


	2. Chapter 2

Miss Fisher was always inexorably pleased to find herself the subject of rampant speculation, though understanding that Jack himself would not be. The first time she realised that their tentative partnership was causing gossip to thrive in the walls of City South--the case with the anarchist, followed by his so-called rescue of Lila Waddington--she had looked at him, head cocking to the side slightly as if to determine whether he was lying, and smiled slightly.

“I don’t intend to be a nuisance, inspector,” she had purred, “and I don’t intend to make your life more difficult--”

“Too late,” he’d replied.

“If this arrangement--”

“An arrangement now, is it?”

“Let me finish, Jack,” she had scolded good-naturedly, and he had smiled. It was, he mused later, his undoing. “I am well aware how difficult gossip can make a person’s life, and I would appreciate you informing me if I overstep egregiously.”

“Miss Fisher, if providing you access to my case files was that bothersome, I simply wouldn’t do it.”

It was not a complete truth--as the DuBois and Foyle cases eventually proved, there were times he could not deny her--but it was closer to the truth than their pretense she had achieved access  _ solely  _ through the power of potatoes.

And that had been that; he had trusted, somehow, that she would not complicate his life unduly for a bit of fun. For a myriad of other reasons, yes, but not for her own amusement. Despite his better sense, he found himself looking forward to it.


	3. Chapter 3

He had kissed her. He had kissed her sure and confident and deep, his hand in her hair, and she had liked it. What was galling, perhaps, was that she knew it would not--could not--be repeated. 

She had had many kisses in her life--fumbling and tentative kisses, kisses where she’d been the seducer and kisses where she’d been the seduced, angry kisses and silly kisses and tender kisses, kisses to celebrate life and kisses to mourn its loss. She had been kissed with deliberation, with spontaneity, with assertion, with pleasure. She had even been kissed by men conflicted by what they were doing. None of that was new.

Never had the moment  _ after  _ the kiss--eyes locked, breath ragged, fear still coursing her veins but at least she was no longer about to fly away, the taste of him on her lips and her tongue enough to keep her if not rooted at least hovering only just above the ground--never had  _ that  _ moment been the one she revisited. But alone in her bed--not that night, but in the days that followed--it was the strange sensation of intimacy that haunted her thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

He knew about her sister, had read the old files, even made some quiet inquiries to friends who owed him a favour; he was not certain if she would appreciate his efforts or resent his influence, but the truth was he had not done it for her. He did not realise the full weight of it until a nightcap in her parlour, a letter passed to him and her eyes imploring him to make something right that could never be right. 

He could not tell her what to do. He could not provide the answers she sought. In the dimly lit parlour, silent save the crackling of the fire and her hushed words, he remembered--quite suddenly--that drowning was almost always silent. 

He was not entirely surprised to realise that even drowning she would fight, would refuse to go quietly. 

“Tell me not to place myself above the law,” she said. “Not to let a killer loose because I want the truth. Tell me there's a greater good than my own need to know.”

She was drowning, but she wasn’t dead yet.

“You never listen to me, anyway.”

Her laugh was no more than a exhalation, the first breath on dry land. 

“Humour me.”

He met her eyes, marvelled that even in her vulnerability she was fierce.

"You know what to do,” he said, confident in her.


	5. Chapter 5

He had thought, perhaps, that she would be in some way diminished by the events of the last few days, but as she opened the door to him she was the same Miss Fisher he had come to know. 

“Jack!” she exclaimed. “What a surprise!”

“Not a pleasant one, I’m afraid. The commissioner is insisting that I get your witness statement signed off on this evening. I thought that perhaps your home would be more comfortable than the station, at least.”

She faltered, only slightly, and motioned him inside. 

“My guests will be arriving soon, but come through to the kitchen.” 

They took opposite sides of the table, a pretense of formality, and he watched as the full weight of the events settled on her shoulders. From outside the kitchen, Jack could hear people arriving and life going on as it always had, but in this room time seemed suspended. Eventually, she laid the pen on the papers and pushed the pile towards him.

“So if that's a true statement of events as you recall them…” he said, the first words in… hours, it seemed.

“Aunt Prudence has organised for my sister to be buried in the family plot,” she said, as if she could not bear for it to be kept secret. “Janey died instead of me.”

It would be futile to offer absolution; neither grief nor guilt were rational shadows. 

“So you owe it to her to keep living to the hilt,” he said instead, then smiled slightly. To ask her to do otherwise was as likely as stopping a freight train by standing on the tracks, and they both knew it. “Not that I noticed you wasting a moment.” 

“Excuse me. They're asking for you, Miss.” 

It was Miss Williams, one of the many people transformed by Miss Fisher’s deep heart.

“My birthday party,” said the woman in question, attempting her usual levity but missing the mark.

He remembered the weight of her unconscious body in his arms, the desperate grasp of her hand to his at her sister’s gravesite. A goddess and a mortal both, and begging him for understanding.

“Summer Solstice,” he said, and she smiled sadly as she reached for his hand. 

“Help me to celebrate.”

It seemed wrong, somehow, that  _ she  _ would ask this of  _ him  _ when she was by far the more adept at it, but he nodded slightly. He had thought, perhaps, that she would be in some way diminished by the events of the last few days. She was not, and he would grant anything in his power to keep it that way.


	6. Chapter 6

With Dot at her mother’s and Mr. Butler visiting his niece for a few days, Phryne and Jane had Christmas lunch at Rippon Lea. Quite early in the day, to account for opening gifts after lunch and leaving enough time for Jane to visit her mother as well. The girl did not want Phryne’s presence, and after settling Jane in with one of the attending doctors, Phryne decided to spend her spare few hours spreading Christmas cheer. And since Mac was out of town to visit _her_ family, there was only one place to go.

“Happy Christmas!” She called, swinging through the doors of City South carrying an enormous basket.

Jack came out of his office, eyebrows raised.

“Miss Fisher. What brings you here today--Santa bring you a particularly unpleasant murder beneath the tree?”

“Nothing so mundane,” Phryne replied. “I knew you were working and thought I’d stop by to make sure you ate something.”

“Hugh?” he asked as she pushed her way into his office.

“He means well,” she replied, opening up the basket and pulling out the food.

He took a plate and filled it up, and Phryne chuckled at his seemingly endless appetite. It did make visiting him at opportunistic times rather easy.  Helping herself to some Turkish Delight, she settled into one of the visitor’s chairs and draped her legs over one of the arms. He raised an eyebrow but remained silent as he ate. It was… pleasant, an oasis of calm on a busy day--given the events of the past few weeks, it was very welcome.

After quite some time, he had cleared his plate and leant back in his chair.

“Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do,” she said, wondering how much to push. “Do you always work Christmas?”

“More often than not. Easter too.”

It was too good an opening to pass up.

“Avoiding holidays with your wife?”

He sighed, and she imagined she could see the sorrow moving beneath his sombre mask.

“I’m divorced,” he finally said. “Or I will be divorced. It doesn’t really count until the final decree is issued, but…”

“I did the math,” she admitted.

“Hugh again?”

“The boy did an admirable job redirecting me when he thought I was too close. But there is no deceiving an amateur detective.”

Her words made him smile slightly, as she’d intended, and she was glad for it.

“Amateur, Miss Fisher?” he asked. “And here I thought you claimed to be a professional.”

“My mistake. Will you stop by for a drink after your shift?”

He considered, but shook his head.

“Not this evening, Miss Fisher. But thank you for the offer all the same.”


	7. Chapter 7

Lulu’s accent was ridiculous. Her fan dance sensual and flirtatious and--though Jack would deny this adamantly and she’d probably be offended by such an assessment--really rather amusing. Attempting to keep a straight face as he approached her at the bar was difficult, and her “Hey, hombre. Follow me.” nearly stripped him of his composure completely. 

Behind the curtain, he forgot about all of it; he was speaking with Phryne Fisher, and he had to admit he preferred her to the Lulu persona. When there was a sound outside the room, it took her only a split second to react, channelling Lulu once more and sliding onto his lap.

“Is taken!” she called out as the curtain pulled back, and Jack struggled to suppress his laughter.

It was not so funny when the woman was gone again, and it was Phryne Fisher looking down at him, her breast practically in his mouth.

“That was close,” she said.

“Still is,” he replied without thought, his mind and his body both providing him with sensations he’d thought long forgotten--the duel of tongues, the wet heat of a woman, the weight of a breast in his palm... 

He had desired her before. Of course he had. But as she looked at him, all flirtations gone and her eyes and smile affectionate, he was struck by the depths of it. 

“Give me a good head start?” she asked.

“As always,” he replied.

When she was gone, he swallowed hard, straightened his tie, and tried to convince himself that he hadn’t just steered into dangerous waters without sufficient ballast to navigate.  


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am massively, massively behind on responding to comments. I am so sorry, but you all have no idea how much I appreciate them all. Here's hopign ao3 doesn't go down when I have time today, which is what happened yesterday. ♥♥♥

Phryne told herself that her pleasure at Jack’s arrival was merely having an excuse to send Giorgios on his way without a fuss--the man was as boring as he was attractive, and completely missing the point. A shame, because a lover who could  also hone her wrestling skills was quite a pleasant prospect--but she knew even as she thought it she was fooling herself.

She _liked_ Jack. Not Jack the police officer or Jack the reluctant thespian or Jack the conversational partner, but the whole of him. There were very few people who found themselves in that level of Phryne’s intimacy, and even fewer who were male. The few in that circle had either come to Phryne’s bed at some point, or there was a mutual lack of disinterest in taking it there.

Neither was true of Jack, and as she bounded down the stairs to find him standing at the bottom, she felt the full weight of it.

“Miss Fisher. I believe I owe you a ride on the great scenic railway,” he said, and the weight lifted as quickly as it had settled.

“So Wallet means...?”

He nodded slightly. “Possum. You win.”

“Oh, how can I resist a man who pays his debts?” she said cheerfully, reaching for her hat.

He took it from her hand and placed it back on the hook, a tiny smile on his face.

“I wouldn’t bother with the hat,” he said, and she grinned widely.

His divorce would be finalised in the near future, and as she took his offered arm she could not help but wonder whether they might end up in the boudoir after all. But then again, he was a serious man when it came to important matters; a great deal of fun, but serious. She liked him far too much to ever break his heart, so perhaps it was better not to offer to hold it.


	9. Chapter 9

He returns the emeralds; she’s still in the evening’s gown and halfway up the stairs when Mr. Butler lets him in, an ascending angel is tulle and beading. Even is his head, the thought seems ridiculous; she is many things, but an angel she is not. There is banter--there always is--but it is charged this evening, and even as he declines the nightcap he sees how the evening could play out:

She would descend the stairs, hand him his drink, talk and tease and flirt but never cross the line. She has decided, it seems, that only he can take that step. He would, tonight. As the drinks were done he would step forward, slip one had to her waist and allow the other to trace the lines of beads across her shoulders, then cradle her head to kiss her with tenderness and longing. She would hold his hand and lead him up the stairs and they would make love. And in the morning, their partnership will be irreparably changed. Not gone, but different. He imagines that if he pleases her--and he is confident he would--it might become an arrangement of sorts, and that pains him more than the idea they may only ever have one night; he knows his nature, knows that eventually he would want more than she was willing to give, and that she might attempt to give it anyway because she is always generous to her friends.

The day will come when he does not decline, when his passions overrule his better self. But for now… for now he will say no, and keep this safe a little longer. He’s no longer certain he’ll know what to do when it is gone.


	10. Chapter 10

She runs her hands along the heavy wool of the scarf, the stitches beneath her fingertips slightly bumpy, and imagines other textures instead--the crushed felt of his fedora, the thinner wool of his suit, the silk or cotton of his shirt, the warmth of his skin and the soft hairs she had spied at Queenscliff and can’t quite forget. His cheekbones against her palm, the pulse of his beautiful heart against her lips as she mouths his neck, the weight of him above her--not her favourite position, but she suspects it would be his and finds it almost welcome.

The game is almost over and Phryne is wondering if, for all her noble notions, she is willing to be this selfish when a constable approaches. Jack is needed at the station; he grimaces and apologises, and Phryne unwraps the scarf from her neck. He opens his mouth as if to tell her to keep it, but accepts it instead; she wonders if her perfume is trapped between the strands of wool, if next time he attends a game he will catch whiffs of her as he goes.

She tries very hard not to wonder why she misses the heft of it on her shoulders; without it, she feels unusually weightless.


	11. Chapter 11

It would be easier if it had been her in that car, if Jack could simply realise he had missed his opportunity out of some misguided sense of honour and move on. It would hurt, but he had a whole history of regrets; he would be fine eventually.

Instead, he knows what it is like to lose her. He knows what it is like to have a second chance and realise it was never honour, but _fear_ that kept him away. He knows that she thought his grief and his anger could be set aside with no more than a joke or a reassurance that she was not dead. He knows that to lose her is unbearable, but the knife twist that she was never his to lose is worse. He knows that whatever he thought he was protecting--their friendship, their partnership--was never real, that she had so little faith in him she would lie and scheme and laugh off the evidence. He knows that he has to walk away, and he does.

But the very worst thing is that he knows that despite her earlier flippancy, despite her lack of trust, despite her very nature, she mourns the loss of what they had. That he has placed that weight on her shoulders; it won’t hold her down for long, but for awhile at least...

It would be easier if it had been her in that car. But even alone in his home, with mediocre whiskey and a hole in his chest, he can’t bring himself to wish it had.


	12. Chapter 12

She doesn’t miss him, necessarily. It’s simply that she has known him for nearly as long as she’s known this Melbourne that is so different to the one she left over a decade before, and the altered landscape makes her cautious.

If she tries really hard, she almost believes it. But the truth of the matter is that she’s off-balance without him. Without what he brings to her life. She has lived her life by struggling against the weights on her--poverty, Janey, the war, the time after--until she no longer knows what it is like to do otherwise. Only poverty is in the past, Janey has been found, the war and Rene far enough away that they no longer hold the shadows they once did and she’s fighting against bonds that are no longer as heavy as they were. This push and pull with Jack is--though she would deny it strenuously if it ever came out--ballast she most definitely needs lest she struggle too hard and capsize her vessel.

(But mostly she just really misses him.)

 


	13. Chapter 13

Maiden Creek was… eerie. The undercurrents of hostility, the vague threats, the secrecy… none of it filled Phryne with confidence, and none of the techniques in her repertoire were suited for this particular battle. If she wanted this murder solved, she needed help. And so she telephoned Jack; clever enough to pick up her ruse, and he outranked the unsettling Sergeant Ford. She trilled her way through the telephone call, speaking as if he was her mechanic; she could hear the moment he realised that all was not as it seemed.

“First thing in the morning would be fine but I'm counting on you,” she said, to drive her point home.

She was certain he would come. Almost certain. The incident with Gertude Haynes might have... thrown them both, but he would not leave her without aid. She could count on him. She had to believe that. She _chose_ to believe that. 

She didn’t realise how very true that was until she saw him the following morning, striding from the police vehicle and taking over the case, and a flood of relief filled her.

“You alright?” he asked when he turned to her, his eyes warm and concerned and still, somehow and always, trusting that she could handle herself.

“All the better for seeing you, Jack,” she said honestly. 


	14. Chapter 14

It was late. Too damned late to be sitting outside of her house and wondering whether to go in. He could go home. Should go home.  _ Would  _ go home, just as soon as he convinced himself that his need to see her alive and well and understanding did not outweigh the fact that it was late and she’d been held captive only hours before. To do anything other than drive away was selfish. Then again, she of all people had taught him that being selfish was not always a bad thing, that--for all they valued their independence--there was no shame in taking strength in others. 

Oh, fuck it. There were still lights on; the worst that would happen was Mr. Butler sending him back home with the assurance he would inform Miss Fisher of his visit when she woke in the morning, completely ignoring the massive inappropriateness of such a visit. And the best? He might breathe her in, touch her, kiss her, and find a quiet place to lay his head until the morning. 

What he found was Phryne, wrapped in a robe of silk, vulnerable and tired enough to admit it. He found her quiet reassurance that he was a good man. He found that he wanted nothing more than to kiss her until they both regained their equilibrium. He found that simply being near her made him less weary, that he could smile, that he could be understood; and as they said goodbye, he knew that she felt it too. 

 


	15. Chapter 15

The drive from theatre to Wardlow was fine. Mostly. She was fine. It was just dinner. With Jack. Who was cross with her. And she was late. And he was cross. Rightfully so, maybe, even if jealousy was so unbecoming on him. And terribly unnecessary. But she was late. And vaguely aware of Mr. Butler informing her that the inspector was waiting in the parlour as she hurried through the kitchen. And she was very, very late. And she had a dress picked out, one that brought out the colour of her eyes and drew attention to her arms (did he like her arms? had she ever actually _cared_ if a man liked her arms?), and she was late and it was going to go wrong again, her bloody father and his bloody schemes and his investments and his constant, constant _meddling_ was going to ruin this for her too, and she was halfway up the stairs before she realised that she should have popped her head into the parlour to let Jack know that it had been the case that had delayed her--and surely Jack of all people would understand that--and by then it was too late. So she dressed instead, hand hovering over the case of her diaphragm before deciding that it was both too deliberate and too optimistic, and whirled her way into the parlour, shutting the doors firmly behind her. Let her father attempt to ruin _that_.

“Jack,” she breathed, moving towards him, the mere sight of him a relief and damn the man for it, “at last.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to PromisesArePieCrust for the prompt for this one.

One bottle of wine became two, and then three. The opera music had been followed by some particularly upbeat jazz, and Jack had watched Phryne dance across the room as she’d gone to retrieve the bottle opener for bottle number three. His head was swimming and his reactions felt sluggish, but he felt no desire to end the night. 

It wasn’t anything earth shattering that provoked him, just the sight of her lips on her wine glass and the way she put it aside when he looked at her. Moving closer, he leaned in as if to kiss her without thought. She pressed a hand against his chest, gentle but unyielding.

“Jack,” she said quietly. “You’re drunk--”

“So are you.”

“We’re both a little drunk,” she amended. “You’ve come here after leaving another woman--”

“Phryne--”

“I don’t mean…” she sighed. “If this is how it happens, we’ll both wake up with regrets tomorrow.”

“More than we would regret not?”

She seemed to think about that for a moment, then stroked the back of his hand.

“I hope you’re drunk enough you forget this in the morning,” she said quietly, “but one of us has to be the voice of reason. Now come on. You’re in no shape to be driving home, and my father has  _ finally  _ vacated the guest room.”

She was right. The rational part of his mind told him that she was right, that this meant too much to begin this way. He still wanted to kiss her, and judging by the way she was watching his lips the feeling was mutual. She stood rather than do it though, and offered him a hand to stand. When he did, she straightened his tie and smiled at him.

“Damn you and your nobility, Jack. You’re a terrible influence on me.”

He laughed, the comment enough for him to come back to himself and head towards the stairs. She caught his arm and tilted her head.

“This might be… easier if we go up together,” she said. “You lean on me and I lean on you?”

Jack really, really hoped that he’d had enough wine to forget the evening come morning. But as they went upstairs, both of them just a little tipsy, he found he really did not mind.


	17. Chapter 17

Phryne knew that her reactions to her father’s schemes were always out of proportion to the apparent behaviours, outsiders never aware of the years of history behind them but enchanted by her father’s charisma. If she had her way, she’d send the bloody man to a deserted island where he could never complicate her life again, since apparently fleeing to Australia was not enough to keep him away.

Her mother might regret it, but as Phryne discovered the servant girl in his room she figured her mother would get over it sooner rather than later.

“Does Mother know?” she spat out, and damn him he had a justification at the ready. He always did. She sneered at him.  “I'm sorry, Jack, I don't think I can bring myself to assist you with this case after all.”

Turning on her heel, she left the room. Jack followed, and she wanted to damn him for other reasons. He listened to her rail, remained placid in the face of her father’s completely irrational behaviour, argued so levelly and with so much unspoken faith in her that she found herself agreeing to investigate after all. Even if she spent half the time imagining setting her father’s ridiculously full head of hair alight.

And it took him all of three seconds before Henry turned his charms on Jack when they returned to the room, and quite frankly that was the absolute limit. Taking ten thousand pounds and sneaking off the boat was one matter. Dragging her name into a murder investigation was little more than she expected from him. The affair was par for the course despite her mother’s assertions he had changed. But he did _not_ get to pull the wool over Jack’s eyes, and he did not get to ruin the life she had built herself.

It is much later, not the waltz but the moment before, when she realises he did not.

 


	18. Chapter 18

In the moment, sitting on the bench and realising that her mother’s happiness is once more in her hands, Phryne does not think about the life she will be leaving behind. It begins to nibble at the edges of her subconscious as she tells her loved ones the plans. There is a wedding to push forward and arrangements to make regarding salaries and management while she is abroad and she pushes it away.

It does not hit her, not properly, until she is saying goodbye to Dot. She wishes her friend good luck, hopes that the foreboding feeling in her gut will come to nothing--she can be there and back in six weeks if the weather cooperates, but it could so easily stretch to months, her plane and her life buffeted by unfavourable winds.

“Oh Jack, look!”

It’s a shooting star, and even as she points to it it is gone. There one moment, but burnt up too soon. He hasn’t asked her to stay, hasn’t clucked disapprovingly over her lack of planning, hasn’t done anything. She almost wants to scream, that he can be so complacent in the face of her absence, as if there was nothing between them after all, that ‘more than anything’ and romantic overtures have led not to something brimming with potential but ruined what they had.

She wants to scream, except when she turns from the star she sees the look on his face, the love in his eyes. He has told her so many times, in so many little ways, that he would never ask her to be anything but what she is.  And she has never doubted that, but faced with the truth once more she can feel the comforting weight that keeps her from floating away entirely.

She smiles at him.

“Nightcap, Jack?”

His answering smile is teasing and light.

“I will miss your whiskey,” he says, and she knows that it is not the drink he is thinking of, but the company and conversation and the sense of home he has found in them.

“Oh Jack,” she replies, “you can stop by anytime you like. I’m sure Mr. Butler would be happy to see you.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the point where I decided I needed a plot? I don't know. My mind is a scary place.

He knew the airfield, the time of departure, the major stops along the way, all of it discussed over a lingering tumbler of whiskey. He knew her hopeful date of arrival and the more realistic one, and what she expected to find on the other end. The one thing he did not know was where they stood.

He had meant to ask, to offer another romantic overture; in the end he thought it might be more of a burden than a welcome distraction, and bitten his tongue. Sitting in his office and eating a slice of toast and marmalade as he wrote reports--and he supposed at least his breakfasts would be safe with her abroad, though it was small comfort--he wondered whether it had been the right choice.

A clump of marmalade fell off his toast, hitting his tie; it wouldn’t come clean with a wipe of his handkerchief, so Jack extracted his spare tie from his desk drawer and decided that he had been better off with Phryne stealing his toast after all.

He eyed the boldly-patterned silk, purchased in advance of the dinner that had never happened. It had made him think of her; bright and whirling, not the neatly organised patterns he had once favoured. Be bold. Be brave. Don’t waste a moment.

_That really is rather a nice tie._

Pushing back from his desk, he hastily looped it around his neck and knotted it, then grabbed his hat and coat.

“I’ll be back later, constable,” he said to the man on the desk, not even glancing to see who it was.

He had a plane to catch and goodbyes to make.

 


	20. Chapter 20

She had kissed him. Kissed him and flown away and teased him that there was a whole world out there--she had meant to explore, to savour, but what if he presumed she meant men? Truthful or not, that would have been cruel--and she had told him to come after her. “A romantic overture” she had called it, but it had been more of a promise.

_Come after me, Jack Robinson._

It should, she supposed, worry her. All that weight placed on less than a kiss, on hands around arms and head tilts and fingers against necks. It did, briefly, until they landed at the first major stop along the route.

 

> WHOLE WORLD IS YOURS (STOP) ENJOY

She sent one in reply, telling him he would enjoy it too, if he could be roused from Melbourne. His reply came at the following stop, and she laughed as she read it.

 

> SOMEONE NEEDS TO KEEP MELBOURNE SAFE EVEN IF BIGGEST DANGER FLYING AWAY

There were telegrams at every stop after that, little missives that buoyed her spirits at the end of long days with her father.

 

> NEWLYWEDS FOUND MURDER (STOP) SOLVED BEFORE I ARRIVED TO LEND ASSISTANCE (STOP) MRS COLLINS SAY HELLO

 

> MAC CLAIMING YOU ONCE CALLED A PRINCE STUFFY TO HIS FACE (STOP) HAVE DOUBTS IT WAS ONLY ONCE

 

> POLICE TRAINING ON ROAD ACCIDENTS TODAY (STOP) CANNOT IMAGINE WHY I THOUGHT OF YOU (STOP) CAN ONLY HOPE YOU FLY BETTER THAN YOU DRIVE

 

> LAST MESSAGE UNFAIR (STOP) YOU ARE AN EXCELLENT DRIVER (STOP) MOSTLY

The telegrams were wonderful, but they were definitely lacking in romance. Which was fair enough, really--paying by the letter hardly left space for wooing. She would not need to remain in England long, and returning immediately to Melbourne was feasible--a shame to waste such a long journey, but needs must. And she most definitely had needs.

So when she landed in a little airfield outside of London and found a telegram waiting for her in the little office, she expected more of the same.

 

> WHOLE WORLD DOES NOT CONCERN ME BUT MISSING YOU DOES (STOP) ARRIVE DEC TWENTY SEVEN (STOP)


	21. Chapter 21

She had imagined their reunion a hundred ways, a thousand ways. In London, on the docks or her townhouse or running into each other on the street as they made their way to each other. In Melbourne, him there to greet her at the airfield or her sashaying into his office or knocking on the door to his modest, well-kept cottage. In front of the fireplace in Wardlow’s parlour, the embodiment of her home.  In any and every port along the way, and a few off the route that amused her. Sometimes he was exactly as she had left him, sometimes the journey showed in a myriad of ways--the length of his hair, the neatness of his shaving, his clothes more casual or more weathered.

Not one of them had prepared her for the actual moment; her butler entering the parlour where she was putting the finishing touches on Christmas Day plans--her parents were coming for dinner, and some friends--and announcing an Inspector Robinson at the door, even though it was nearly eleven o’clock at night. Looking up, her heart betraying her as it squeezed and thudded and threatened to implode as she attempted to breath, she stood to compose herself, to greet him calmly. Turning, she realised that he had--against all proper etiquette--not remained at the front door but had followed her man Jarvis, and was in fact _there_.  

She burst into tears. Ridiculous, loud, snivelling tears.

He shifted as if to move towards her, fedora in hand in a gesture so intimately familiar she cried harder, and paused as if uncertain of his welcome. Panic clawed at her throat, the strangest sensation of drowning with no ground beneath her feet, and she could not find the words to reassure him of his welcome against the terrifying thought that he might not already know.

Then he tossed the hat on a table and strode across the room, caught her in his arms, and kissed her until she was back on solid ground. When they broke apart her hands were fisted in the fabric of his suit jacket, her body pressed against his.

“Do you always deal with terrified women that way?” she asked, breathless.

It was an admission he would no doubt understand. He smirked softly, pressing his forehead against hers.  

“First thing they teach at the police academy.”

Her grasp relaxed, and she glanced down to smooth his lapels.

“I wasn’t expecting you for ages yet,” she said, not quite ready to meet his eyes. “You said the 27th.”

“There was a problem with the ship, so I disembarked in Marseille and took the train. I hope that’s not an inconvenience, Miss Fisher. I can get a hotel if...”

She took a shaky breath.

“You’re _here_ , Jack. The Crown Prince could stop by tonight and I’d turn him away.”

“Is that a valid possibility?” he teased, but there was a heaviness in his eyes and she realised the full scope of this hastily-made overture.

She waved her hand and tried not to cry again.

“You know me,” she said breezily. “I was just heading upstairs though. I’ll have Jarvis put your bag in a guest room and we could… have a nightcap in my private parlour?”

It was not, she would reflect later, a particularly good plan. A man just off a long train journey and a boat before that, a woman who ten minutes earlier had been sobbing hysterically. The chances of the sex being anything less than downright awful were slim.

It managed, somehow, to be _worse_ than expected. Jack wasn’t _bad_ , despite his relative inexperience, and certainly knew the theory even if the execution was less than perfect,  but months of lingering, thrilling touches did not seem to translate well to the boudoir. For either of them. Jack’s orgasm was quick and unfulfilling, and Phryne’s unreachable despite efforts, and eventually they called a halt to proceedings. Jack climbed from the bed, and for a moment Phryne thought has was going to leave.

“Jack?” she asked, voice far more tentative than she could remember it being.

“Pyjamas,” he explained. “Unless you--”

“No! No. Stay, please.”

He dressed quickly, and made his way back to the bed. They lay side-by-side.

“Jack, what if…?” her voice trailed off, her fingers lacing through his as if scared they would drift apart.

What if they just weren’t compatible? It seemed unfair, but possible. Probable, even, in the face of events.

“Phryne,” he said, his voice tight. “You are… probably my best friend. Our investigations, our conversations, our partnership… those aren’t going to change, no matter how the rest of it turns out. Not unless you want it to.”

She smiled slightly. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, inspector.”


	22. Chapter 22

Phryne woke up to a hand on her breast and warm breath on her neck; it was, by happy coincidence, one of her favourite ways to wake up. She stretched, felt the hand drop away--her bed partner clearly still asleep--and captured it with her own to bring it back. He stirred, pressing a kiss to her shoulder; the roughness of his stubble caught her, then his scent.

_Jack_.

Still half asleep, she whimpered, felt tendrils of heat flicker through her body. The disappointment of the night before felt like a distant dream in the face of the reality of his presence, and she rolled over to study him. Bad sex or not, waking beside this man was an absolute treat. 

“Jack?” she asked quietly.

“Mmm?”

“Are you awake?”

“Barely.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“You want to, after last night?”

She laughed softly, brushing her nose against his.

“It would be a very silly thing, to be put off by one bad experience.”

“Not if it was that bad,” he said dryly, eyes still closed.

“It was awful, wasn’t it?”

“Terrible.”

Chuckling, she slid her hand beneath the hem of his pyjama shirt and stroked the skin there. She had had many men and many circumstances, but never had they been more than a simple pleasure--for a night or a week or a month, but never part of her life. His eyelids flickered and his cheek twitched, and she placed a kiss against his jaw.

“But you have to admit that the circumstances were less than ideal, and the preludes were all _very_ promising.”

She pulled her hand away, even though she wanted nothing more than to keep touching him, and waited.

“Less than ideal?” he asked.

“I was tired, you were _exhausted_ , I wasn’t expecting you for over a week yet… not auspicious circumstances even when there isn’t--” she swallowed hard and rushed the words out. “When there isn’t so much importance behind it.”

“Ah.”

“So I’m asking again: can I kiss you?”

“I’m not sure, Phryne…” he said, and she could only blame the last lingering nerves for the way she missed the tiny smirk in the corner of his lips; before she could speak, he’d rolled on top of her and pinned her hands above her head. His face was directly above hers, his eyes far too alert to have been genuinely asleep seconds before. “What if I kiss you first?”

“Well, usually I would object to someone taking those sorts of liberties,”she grinned, squirming against him, “but I suppose under the circumstances--” She darted her head forward to kiss him, then laughed. “I suppose you were just too late.”

He lowered his lips to hers, kissing her so slow and sweet her toes curled; she was slightly breathless when he pulled away to smile at her.

“Care for a waltz, Miss Fisher?”


	23. Chapter 23

Phryne had been too stunned the year before to really process her birthday; she’d danced the night away with her nearest and dearest, and found joy and love after some of the worst days of her life. It was only later that it had really struck her, and she had looked toward this year’s with some trepidation--far from home, on the darkest day of the year in London, it seemed less a cause of celebration and more a portender of doom.  Jack’s early arrival was a balm.

“It’s my birthday,” she murmured against his shoulder, both of them buried beneath the thick doona after their pas de deux.

“It is,” he agreed, tracing a knuckle up and down her spine. “What would you like to do?”

“I’d like to spend all day in bed,” Phryne said, lowering her head to circle his nipple with her tongue and relishing the groan it dragged from him, “but unfortunately I’d already arranged a rather enormous party.”

“How enormous?” he asked suspiciously.

“It’s being held at Guy and Isabella’s estate.”

He groaned, whether at the news or her teeth she wasn’t certain.

“And you’ll need full dinner dress.”

Another groan. Which probably had more to do with the position of her hand than the dress code, and she was going to spend a great deal of time making him do it again.

“Unless you want to stay home.”

“I can definitely see the advantage of that.”

She tipped her head forward enough for her bob to obscure her face.

“I would like you there,” she said quietly.     

His hand came to cup her cheek, brushing her hair back as he did so.

“Of course I’ll come,” he promised, and she met his eyes just as he smirked. “Who knows what sort of trouble you’d get into without me.”

“The Crown Prince was hoping to make an appearance,” she said thoughtfully.

He laughed loudly and rolled her on top of him. “Then you’ll definitely need me to keep you out of trouble.”

She looked down at his open, loving expression, and pressed a soft kiss to his philtrum.

“It’s a difficult job, but someone has to do it,” she laughed, the dread her birthday had carried evaporating in the face of this moment.

“Nearly impossible,” he retorted, smiling.

She nibbled her lip, rocking against him softly.

“I’ll tell you what, Jack. If it gets too dull, I’m sure there are quiet corners we can sneak away to."


	24. Chapter 24

It was Christmas Eve; Jack and Phryne spent the day strolling through London and avoiding the last minute shoppers, stopping for lunch at a cafe in South Kensington. When it began to rain--only a light drizzle, but cold--Jack turned up the collar of his coat to keep dry, but Phryne paid the weather no mind. 

“Snow would be more seasonal,” said Jack, stopping just outside a large building--one of the museums, he thought--and she flashed him a grin.

“Summer would be even better,” she replied. “Despite all the stories from England growing up, I have to admit that I never quite adjusted to the idea of a winter Christmas. The lights are very pretty though.”

“They are,” Jack agreed.

“And we can have summer next year,” she pointed out, just a little tentatively; it was the first time either of them had spoke about their future as if it were a certainty.

Before he could reply, the heavens opened up; Phryne laughed in delight and turned her face upwards, then grabbed him by the hand and hurried them into the shelter of the museum.

They wandered the galleries for an hour or so and then returned to her townhouse just before dark, which came surprisingly early. It had been idyllic, the sort of familiar mundanity he had ever doubted possible with her. There had been no murders, no mysterious disappearances or robberies, nothing at all to intrude upon the bubble they had forged for themselves. It would disappear soon enough--Phryne had planned a large gathering for Christmas Day--but it had been a welcome interlude.

After dinner they moved to the small library, wrapped in each other’s arms as they read their respective books and not thinking of much of anything. Occasionally one of them would turn to the other to press a kiss against a shoulder, or shift to refill their drinks--whiskey, in the beginning, but around ten her butler had brought them in hot cocoa--or remark on something they had read. The clock had just struck midnight when they laid the books aside almost simultaneously and Phryne moved to straddle his lap.

“Happy Christmas, Jack Robinson,” she said, before kissing him slowly.

He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to the place behind her ear that made her tremble every time.

“Happy Christmas, Miss Fisher.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's just gone Christmas Day here, and I won't get a chance to post until late evening if I don't do it now. Thank you all so much for indulging this silly little project, and happy holidays to you and yours! ♥♥♥

“And _that_ ,” Phryne said, dropping into an armchair near the fire and waving a hand as if it would make a tumbler of whiskey appear, “was precisely why I have not spend a Christmas with my parents in nearly a decade.”

Jack poured two drinks and tried not to laugh; it hadn’t been that awful, really. Henry had been the same as he’d been in Melbourne--overly familiar, petulant, and used to getting his own way--and Margaret had proven to have more of a backbone than Jack would have guessed, and it had ended in the two of them having a row after most of the guests had left.

“I didn’t think they were that bad,” he offered.

“Perhaps not for one year,” Phryne scoffed, draining the whiskey he’d handed her. “But when it is the same argument every year for your entire life…”

“They always argue about whether Lady Keeble was attempting to seduce your father?” he asked, smiling slightly as he settled onto the chaise beside her.

She rolled her eyes. “No. And I’m quite certain my father has been attempting to seduce Lady Keeble, but trust my mother to get the wrong end of the stick. It’s the… nothing ever gets resolved. They argue and then one or the other forgets about it until the next time. I used to think it was the money, or because I was such a horrid child, or when Janey disappeared…” she took a deep breath, as if to steady herself. “But it’s just _them_.”

Suspecting that an apology would not be welcome, Jack reached out to toy with the ruby earring that dangled from her lobe; she closed her eyes as his fingertips brushed against her skin, then sighed.

“What about your family, Jack?”

“You know most of it. My mum and dad are both gone, my sister lives in Canberra and we barely speak--she’s quite a bit younger than I am, and there’s rarely much to say even if I love her--and that’s about it,” he said, then chuckled.

“What?”

“I hadn’t thought about this in years, but my parents used to fight every Christmas too.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm. Two of the most level-headed people you would ever meet--”

“Colour me shocked,” Phryne interjected, and Jack gave her a reprimanding look.

“I don’t think I ever heard them argue outside of this, but my father decided to cook lamb for the meal one year, when I was… about five? And my mother never let him forget it. The first year after he passed my mother ended up crying in the middle of the kitchen that he’d cooked the damn lamb and she still hadn’t forgiven him.”

“That sounds…”

“It was utterly ridiculous,” Jack laughed. “As a adult I realised that it was a lot more complicated than it seemed--dad was cooking that year because my mother was laid up in bed sick, and my grandmother decided that lamb instead of a more expensive meal was either an insult to her or a sign my mother was not economical enough and spent all my father’s money on frivolities.”

“And your mother let it fester?” Phryne asked.

Jack considered it for a moment. “You know, I don’t think so. Even when they were arguing, they knew they were on the same side. The lamb was just little frustrations boiling over once a year.”

“They sound nice,” she said softly.

“They were.”

Phryne sighed. “And now I’ve made us both maudlin for no good reason.”

He slid closer, dipping his head to the crook of her neck and breathing in her perfume.

“I know that I, for one, have had a horrible Christmas,” he murmured. “A day off, a delicious dinner that I neither had to cook nor clean up, with Phryne Fisher for company.”

“I can’t imagine how the day could have been worse,” she said dryly, smiling.

“Well, I suppose I could have bought her a gift--”

“Jack! I said no presents.”

“I had already bought it,” he admitted with a grimace. “And really, this benefits us both.”

Her eyes glinted in a way he had, in the past week, come to realise meant that she was about to become very lustfully compromised.

“Work or pleasure?” she asked, shifting so she was kneeling beside him on the chaise.

“Definitely pleasure,” he said. “As long as we ignore that one time.”

“Completely out of my mind,” she said lightly. “To wear or to use?”

“Wear,” he said, sipping the last of the whiskey from his tumbler.

“For me or for you?”

He choked, and before he could recover--why _that_ was the thing that surprised him he did not know--she’d waved her hand.

“I’ll presume for me, based on your reaction.”

“It would be a shoddy gift if I was the one wearing it,” he said, and she shook her head.

“You do need to have a _little_ more imagination, Jack. Is it a scarf?” she asked, her voice the picture of innocence even as she traced the shell of his ear with her tongue. “A pair of driving gloves, perhaps? A new hat would never go amiss…”

If she continued what she was doing, Jack was going to have his way with her right bloody there and completely ruin the point.

“If you’re that curious, Miss Fisher, I believe it was left on your bed.”

She settled back on haunches and looked at him carefully. The she pressed her lips together in seeming irritation, and stood.

“I won’t be able to rest until I’ve seen it now,” she said.

“I’m not sure how your impatience is my problem,” replied Jack mildly, then laced his hands around her hips and looked up at her. “I’ll join you in ten minutes?”

“Make it five,” she said, “or I’ll have to get started without you.”

\------

Heading up the stairs to her bedroom, Phryne found herself humming. Which was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. But ohh, that man. That sweet, ridiculous, unpredictable man. Opening the door, she saw a wrapped box--red, with a silver ribbon--in the centre of the bed. Her first impulse, as always, was to tear through the paper to get to the treasures beneath, but found she could not do it to the box so carefully wrapped by Jack’s hands.

Inside was a green chemise of silk, the neckline trimmed with lace with some oddly-shaped leaves embroidered onto it and pearls. After a moment, she realised what it was and began to laugh. Spying the note that lay underneath, she picked it up and unfolded it.

 

> Your kisses cannot be compelled, but perhaps freely given?

Grinning, she changed quickly and inserted her device, then wrapped a dressing robe around her. She had just settled on the bed when Jack knocked.

“Come in!”

He opened the door and stepped inside, then looked at the carefully set-aside paper next to Phryne.

“You’ve always struck me as a tearer,” he said.

“I couldn’t bear to when it was wrapped so neatly,” she admitted.

His lips twitched. “I’m sure the lovely assistant at Harrod’s appreciates the thought.”

“I’m sure she would,” Phryne said, rolling her eyes at herself.

“Was it…?”

Phryne stood and crossed the room, draping her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

“If this is a gift for us both, perhaps it is your turn to unwrap.”

“That does seem fair,” he agreed, fingers coming to rest on the sash of her dressing gown. She laid a hand over his to pause them.

“With your teeth,” she requested.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t quibble, just led her towards the bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he drew her between his parted legs so the belt was level with his eyes; she could feel the heat of his breath through the layers of silk, the brush of his lips; soon enough, the robe fell open, and he took in the sight of her.

“Phryne…”

“I take it you approve?”

His thumb on her hip stroked downwards over the silk, following the crease of her thigh, and he swallowed hard.

“I approve,” he said hoarsely, “not that you’ve ever needed my approval.”

And how he could desire her so deeply and still assert her independence at every turn amazed her; she was quite certain she was far less noble in her impulses. She lifted his chin to meet his eyes.

“I don’t need your approval,” she agreed, “but I find myself in the peculiar position of wanting it all the same. Love is such an odd thing, isn’t it?”

The sheer unstated _joy_ on his face and the glint of tears in his eyes made Phryne well up as well, and she kissed the tip of his nose.

“Don’t you dare cry,” she warned him. “I have been looking forward to this all day, and I do not want it ruined by blubbering.”

He laughed. “You are utterly impossible.”

“That’s half the fun, isn’t it?”

“Come here,” he said, pulling her onto his lap. One finger traced the neckline of her chemise. “How do you feel about mistletoe?”

She grasped the back of his head and kissed him deeply, undressing him with her free hand. Managing to loosen his tie and unbutton his waistcoat, she slid from his lap so she could attack the braces and trousers. Divesting him of those entirely, she watched him turn to recline against the pillows and came to straddle his thighs. His smile as his eyes roved upwards.

“That was very nice,” he said, “but I believe I’m supposed to kiss _beneath_ the mistletoe.”

His hands, warm and large, glided up her thighs to rest beneath the chemise and his smirk sent a shiver through her.

“It would be silly to argue with tradition,” she agreed.

He pulled softly until she knee-walked up the bed, stopping only when she drew level with his mouth. Bracing herself against the wall, she waited for the touch of his lips. Soft at first, but confident. She wondered where he’d learnt to do quite this much with his mouth and tongue, but suspected that the answer would lead to some very unbecoming jealousy; so long as his mouth was on _her_ now and the foreseeable future, she decided she didn’t care enough to question it.

Especially when he--oh god--when he...

“Enough,” she panted, and he paused in his ministrations. “Together tonight.”

Legs still trembling, she moved down his body to take him inside. The sensations as he filled her were the most beautiful ache, and when she was fully seated she leant forward to kiss him, and then rolled them both so he was on top.

Anchoring him to her with legs wrapped around his hips, she shifted to encourage him to move. He began a slow, steady thrusting that wound her tighter than she thought possible; she mewled and pulled him closer until they rose and fell in tandem, their climaxes building, and when they shattered it was with the full weight of the future bringing them back to earth.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [So Much Importance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8997346) by [deedeeinfj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/pseuds/deedeeinfj)




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